Confessions of a Bewildered Genius
by Virtuella
Summary: After a suitable period of soul searching, Sherlock tries to make things right with Molly, but Molly has some unforeseen insights of her own.
1. Chapter 1

Usual disclaimers apply

* * *

Chapter 1

With clinical precision, Molly Hooper performed surgery on her life. It was radical, because the tumour was large and some healthy tissue was damaged in the process, but ultimately she wanted to survive and amputation was better than death. The new job was at the Western General. The flat was in Leith, not far from the waterfront. Her message to Sherlock was unambiguous.

 _Please do not contact me again. Not in person and not by proxy. And for once, respect my wishes. M_

And it seemed that for once, he did.

And so Molly got used to her new world, to the chill winds rushing down Princes Street, to the smell of brewery hanging over the city, to the striking hills looming on every horizon, the ubiquitous seagulls, the stunning bridges. The people were friendly and accommodating, if somewhat hard to understand. After a while, though, her ears became attuned to the northerly lilt, and one day she caught herself replying to a colleague's statement with, "Oh, aye."

She didn't date, she didn't try to move on. She worked, she explored her new surroundings, and she discovered the joy of hobbies. Apparently she had a voice, a neat little soprano, which she contributed to the church choir. Her pottery was beginning to look passable. She contemplated taking piano lessons. It was amazing how much free time you can have when you're not called at all hours to help with criminal investigations that aren't actually part of your job.

Was she only trying to fill the void in her heart? Oh, what sentimental nonsense! Love wasn't everything. Bruised and tender still, her affections for Sherlock Holmes had followed her to the North, and she let them continue, let them be true and weighty, but she assigned them a place, ring-fenced and out of the way, where she expected them to stay, because right now there was something she needed much more than his or any man's love, and that something was self-respect. Nobody here knew anything of the heartbreak and humiliation she had brought in her luggage from London, and since nobody knew, nobody asked, nobody pitied, and nobody spoke of her as "poor Molly" behind her back as she was sure some of her London friends did. She drank the crisp draught of dignity with a relish that proved just how parched she had been.

The light was different in the North, more expansive, she thought, and limpid on the mind. How elegant the city was, with its ancient grey buildings on its seven hills. How free she felt in these streets. Maybe she would stay here forever. Maybe.

When the doorbell rang on an ordinary Saturday morning, she assumed it was a delivery and opened the door on autopilot only to find Sherlock, scarf, coat and all, looking at her.

"If this is your idea of eloping to Scotland, you've made a fundamental blunder."

 _That_ was his opening gambit? Molly wasn't having this.

"I asked you to respect my wishes. Why didn't you?"

He sighed.

"I tried, for a while. But this particular wish of yours, Molly, isn't fair on either of us. I would like to think that you know that as well."

Molly still wasn't having it, but she decided to deflect. Simply slamming the door in his face did not square with her new-found dignity.

"So, six months?" she said. "I see Mycroft is slacking."

"Not at all. We knew in under a week where you'd gone. But it took me a long time to compile this – because I wanted to get it right."

He pulled a large manila envelope out of his coat and held it out to her.

"What's that?"

"The whole story. Well, the whole story from my side. I want to leave it here for you to look at and I am asking you…humbly…to give me this one chance. Take your time. I know you're off this weekend and on backshift as of Monday. I'll be at the café of the Gallery of Modern Art, Gallery One that is, every day between ten and two until next Thursday. Thereafter I have to return to London, but you know where to find me there. Please, Molly, will you take it?"

If he'd tried to smile, to charm her somehow, or otherwise tried to look pleading and pitiful, she'd have refused. He knew better, though, than to try any kind of manipulation. The offer was made; his face was kept neutral. She was free to decide.

"Okay," she said eventually and took the envelope. "One chance, but only one."

"I know. That's why I've been so very…thorough."

And with that he swung himself round and marched off. Molly closed the door.

The envelope sat on her kitchen table while she finished some chores and then had lunch. It wasn't going to run away and neither was Sherlock, so there was no reason to rip it open greedily. Only after she had put her plate and cup into the dishwasher did she, slowly and careful, open it. It contained a wad of printed pages and a compact disc. She went over to her PC and switched it on, hoping that it wasn't going to be a video message a la Mary. On the disc was written, "Start with the letter." She began to read.

 _Dearest Molly,_

 _So you have decided to read the letter. Thank you for that. I want you to follow these instructions precisely: On the enclosed disc, you will find files numbered 1 – 12. They contain factual evidence. Each file should be viewed at the point I indicate in this letter. Do not look at all the files first; do not read the whole letter first; but switch between them as I say. Thank you._

 _Now first of all: Should you decide to see me after you have gone through all the material, you will receive my unreserved apology for any pain I have caused you. To be clear, the apology is not conditional on you seeing me. Please accept my apology in writing – I am so very sorry – but I think we can agree that this is inadequate. I would very much prefer to say it to your face. You may not want to see me now, but I hope the rest of this letter will change your mind. Please read on._

 _I will attempt to tell the story of Sherlock and Molly as I experienced it. Cast your mind back to the early days of our acquaintance. To the first time I met you in the morgue. You know what I do. I had not known you ten minutes before I had you noted down as right-handed, cat owner, orphan, Bristol alumna, plus half a dozen trivia. But I added another tag to my internal list about you. "Nice woman, likely to get hurt." Of course I didn't know back then that I would be the one who would do most of the hurting. But I digress. What you should know is that while I generally don't like most people much, even less so on first meeting them, I have liked you from the start. I would be hard pressed to explain exactly why. Some words spring to mind – genuine, innocent, honest, kind – and I suppose they somehow outline the truth without defining it precisely. I have always liked you, and unlike you, I have always been aware of this._

 _I continued to like you, a little more each time we met, though I have to confess that I scoffed at times at your mannerisms and your cute little ways. Did I notice your fumbled attempts at flirting with me? Yes, I did, but I filed that under "mannerism" too. I added another tag to my list. "Likely to hook up with a psychopath." And promptly, you did._

 _I would like you to view file No 1 now._

Molly inserted the disc and opened the first file. It was a text exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft.

 **There is an IT technician called Jim at Bart's. Give him an all-round health check for me. SH**

 **For what purpose? MH**

 **He is going out with a young pathologist of my acquaintance and I want to make sure he is good enough for her. SH**

 **Jealous? You? MH**

 **Of course not. Just looking out for a friend. SH**

 **Leave it with me. MH**

 _Admittedly, I was mostly just worried that he would let you down one way or another. Mycroft didn't find out much; Moriarty was too clever. The psychopath thing came as a surprise. Afterwards I spent considerable time contemplating the question what exactly went down between you and him, and if you ever want to tell me, I would be so grateful, because I may not have been jealous back then, but I was so, so curious, and still am. Digressing again. What I hope you will take away from this first piece of evidence is that I was watching out for you even when you didn't know it, and that I was calling you my friend when you were thinking of me as a mean bastard._

 _Well, Moriarty disappeared after his brief stint as an IT technician, and you didn't seem particularly heartbroken, so I left it at that. Everything went on as before. I was getting very comfortable around you, and as you know, I am not usually comfortable with people. I was always glad when you were on shift, as the other pathologists were not to my liking. And so everything was fine as far as I was concerned, until I screwed up._

 _If this were one of John's blogs, this paragraph would be called "The Incident at the Christmas Party." I have attempted to reconstruct what it would have looked like from your perspective. You had perhaps gone to great lengths to find a delightful gift for me – more of that later – or perhaps you had stumbled upon it somewhere and decided it should be for me, in any case, you had invested obvious, albeit naïve, efforts to make yourself and the gift look lovely. You would have arrived at my place hoping for something, some little kindness from me, and instead I mocked you brutally. Only, I didn't really. I had simply misjudged. My deductions, where you are concerned, have so often been faulty, and that night was a prime example._

 _When you had said you would drop in, I had expected your normal self, minus the lab coat. I had expected ponytail, childish jumper and perhaps, given the occasion, a silly Santa hat or something of that nature. So when you came through the door, I was a little shocked, because the dress, the curls, the bow, the make-up, those massive earrings, it was all too much. You looked very pretty (and if you'd had eyes at the back of your head, you'd have seen Lestrade ogling you), but you didn't look like you. My immediate conclusion was that you were about to see a lover, and I opened my big mouth and came out with all that drivel probably – I say probably, because I find it hard enough to understand my current feelings, let alone those of the past – because I did not relish that idea. However, I honestly did not mean to hurt you. I thought if you were about to meet a new lover, you'd like being teased about it. Isn't that what people do? Of course, being the tremendous ass that I am, I got carried away and made that utterly inappropriate comment about your mouth and breasts; I am sorry, Molly, that was low of me. Then I read the gift tag and was mortified. Please believe me when I say that until that moment I had never suspected that you had any deeper feelings for me. A bit of hero worship, perhaps, "fangirling" they call it these days, don't they, but I always assumed that was all. Had I known that it was me you were trying to impress with your frankly gargantuan earrings, I would have kept my mouth shut. You have to believe me that I have that much decency at least._

 _You were quite right to upbraid me, of course. However, at the time I felt your reproach was a little unwarranted. You said that I always said such horrible things, every time, always, always. I understood that you were being hyperbolical because you were upset, nevertheless I couldn't help thinking that this comment was unfair. I had said so many nice things to you over the years. Perhaps you thought I only said them to butter you up so you'd help me with cases, but that's not quite right. You and I both know that you'd have helped me anyway. No, I said nice things to you_ _exactly because I knew you would help me. As a kind of advance payment, if you will. In retrospect, the majority of my compliments were probably rather clumsy, still, they were sincere. I have always considered you an attractive woman by objective standards. Anyway, at that moment at the party, when you claimed that I always said horrible things to you, I felt a strong urge to defend myself. There was a list rattling through my head that would have gone along the lines of "On the 14_ _th_ _of January 2012 I told you that I liked your smile, on the 23_ _rd_ _of April the same year I said your new perfume suited you" etcetera, etcetera, and while the compliments were ones I'd really given you, the dates were made up because even I can't remember things in such detail. Sometimes, when I want to show off, I do this kind of thing. It's the famous bullshit that John says you've seen though years ago. The list of bullshit was about to force its way out of my mouth, but some higher power (perhaps Sherlock Holmes's sense of decency?) stopped me and insisted that I asked you to forgive me. Here is one part of my conduct on which I can look back with satisfaction. I sincerely hope the kiss I gave you took away at least some of the sting._

 _I would like you to view file No 2 now, which is a photograph of my bedroom wall._

The photograph showed the headboard of the bed and above it, arranged with great precision int rectangle, in heavy silver frames with three inch mounts, were the "Beauty of Science" art prints she had given him that Christmas. She remembered it well; she had been so thrilled when she had found the set in a tiny book shop in Greenwich. There was an image of galaxies taken by the Hubble Space telescope, a botanic cyanotype by Anna Atkins, a microscopic picture of snow crystals, fractals, a 17th century map of the coast of Holland, a close-up photograph of a starling's feather, and other intriguing images. They were so beautiful that she had coveted them immediately but had been put off by the rather hefty price tag. A week later she had gone back to the shop and bought the set anyway, not for herself but for Sherlock. She had occasionally wondered what he'd done with them; whether they were mouldering away in some cupboard, whether he had even bothered opening the box. Whether he had scoffed and tossed them in the bin. Instead he had spent probably ten times as much as she had to have them framed; and he'd hung them where she would never see them. Which raised the question…

 _I know what you're thinking, Molly. The photograph is recent, as you can easily see from the file extension, but I can assure you that the pictures had been put up as you see them before Easter that year. I had them framed for two reasons, one was guilt, but the other, more important one, was that they are really very beautiful pictures. I know I should have thanked you for them, but I was being a dick and a coward as usual and didn't want to drag up that awful scene again. Let me thank you now. You gave me a wonderful gift that I have cherished ever since. Lately, I have been thinking that it also contains a message. Science, logic and rational thinking on the one hand, and beauty, art and all the finer feelings on the other hand, are not polar opposites as I so long believed, but complementary aspects of the world that should both be valued equally. The pictures you gave me express this to perfection._

 _Let's move on to the other issue that needs to be addressed in this context. John has invested much mental effort into convincing himself and me that Irene Adler and I were soulmates. And John, bless his cotton socks, is rarely right. In fact, the entire topic can be dealt with in bullet points:_

\- _Irene Adler was an extravagantly attractive woman by objective standards and this fact was not lost on me._

\- _She was a worthy opponent and almost beat me. I had to admire that._

\- _She was a criminal. I hunt criminals; I don't fall in love with them._

\- _The first time I saw her, she tried to throw me off my game by appearing in front of me stark naked. In case you wondered how I identified her in the morgue. (Only it wasn't her after all. Darn, just how did she manage that one?)_

 _I would like you to view file No 3 now. It is a transcript of my entire correspondence with Irene Adler._

Molly nearly laughed when she read the messages. The words were more confident than any she'd ever managed in this context, but apart from that here was a faithful mirror image of what Sherlock had called her own "fumbled attempts" at flirting with him. And they had been just as unsuccessful.

 _As you can see, she was rather keen. I, not so much. I have no idea what became of her. Mycroft tried to feed me a story through John that she'd gone to America on a witness protection scheme, and around the same time I heard rumours that she'd been beheaded in Karachi. Chances are, neither of these stories is true. I amused myself with imagining a dashing rescue and quite fancied myself in the role of the knight in shining armour, but that's about the extent of it. Mycroft tried to keep up the illusion that she's alive in America by sending me little fake messages from time to time, but I would say the balance of probability is that she is indeed dead. Case in point, there hasn't been a single message since Sherrinford._

 _After The Incident at the Christmas Party, I made an effort to be nicer to you. I hope you noticed. I didn't always succeed, I know, because I am clumsy and arrogant and at times mentally paralysed in your presence, but the good intention was not lacking!_

 _I would like you to view file No 4 now._

It was a scanned-in image of an article she had written years ago for a medical journal. Her photograph was in a small box at the top. Key phrases and sentences were underlined and in the margins appeared several exclamation marks and once the word "excellent!" The edges of the paper were fuzzy and slightly torn in places, a grid of lines divided the sheet and along those lines the print was faded or rubbed off. Molly remembered leaving the journal lying open on the lab table beside Sherlock in the hope he would notice it. At the time, he had ignored it completely.

 _Did you think I wasn't interested in your article? Far from it. I took note of the publication and obtained a copy from the Imperial College library. The paper is in the state you see it because it has been in my wallet ever since. I kept it with me because it was your first. The others are in a folder in my desk drawer. The folder is labelled "Clever Woman." I have always admired your competence, Molly, and I've learned a good deal from these articles. You were never just a pretty face. You showed your mettle time and time again, for example that day when you went out solving crimes with me._

 _Which brings me to a baffling puzzle: How I could spend an entire day with you and not notice the engagement ring on your finger. Can you solve it, Molly? It's quite easy, really. After The Incident at the Christmas Party, I made a vow never to deduce you again. I trained myself only to look at your face. Your lovely, warm, caring, expressive little face. I looked at it a lot that day. When we talked in that stairwell, I was feeling very tenderly towards you. I told the absolute truth when I said you were the person who mattered most. If you hadn't given me strength, if you hadn't had such boundless faith in me, I don't think I could have gone through with it all. I owed you gratitude, but I wanted to give you more than gratitude. What exactly, I wasn't quite sure. I'm still not sure. I'm pretty certain, however, that I was about to hug you._

 _Then you moved your hand, the ring caught the light, and that's when I first saw it. That moment I had … feelings. No idea what kind of feelings. Disappointment and jealousy are the two that spring to mind. Perhaps something else that doesn't fit into such categories. A feeling that I hated this discovery but that it served me right. I had an urge to say something crushing, like the day you brought in your "Jim from IT." Against all odds, I had the strength to stop myself. Who was I to tell you what you should and shouldn't do? I wanted you to be happy, so I had to make myself wish that this engagement would make you happy. Have you ever wondered what kind of kiss we could have had on that stairwell if that ring had not been on your finger? I was indeed profoundly grateful when it was gone._

 _I would like you to view file No 5 now._

A snapshot from John and Mary's wedding, one she'd never seen before. She is standing beside Tom and smiling up at him, desperately trying to convey the impression that she is oh so happy. It was astonishing how obvious the desperation was. Sherlock is on her other side with Janine clinging to his arm, but he isn't looking at Janine, he is looking at her, Molly. He looks…forlorn.

 _And file number 6, the note that came with it._

Just one sentence, in Mary's handwriting: "Are you sure these people are matched up correctly?"

 _No, I was sure they weren't, but since the matching up was not of my choosing, there wasn't much I could do about it. I had Mycroft check out your Tom and he certainly showed up to be squeaky clean, but, oh, Molly, was he ever not good enough for you! Simply not being a psychopath is setting the bar rather low, don't you think? I never once heard a single intelligent word come out of his mouth. As for the "quite a lot of sex" you were having, I have to confess the thought makes me shudder. You did well getting rid of him. How did you do it? Did you have any opportunity to slap him? You do such a good slap, I believe I should be jealous if you slapped anyone other than me._

 _I'm sorry, I should be serious about this. You know what a dark time I went through. It would have been so much worse without you. Please view file number 7, which is a note I wrote one day at your place while you were at work. I meant to leave it for you and as per usual didn't have the guts. I kept it, though, thinking one day I might be a braver man. I guess that day has come._

 **Molly, I cannot thank you enough for everything you do for me. Without you, I would be dead many times over. I feel safer in your home than in my own. Time and time again I am humbled by your generosity. I am a mess right now and may be so for some time to come, but one day, I promise, I will get my act together and repay you for all your kindness. Until then, remember that you mean more to me than anyone else in the world. Sherlock**

Molly heaved a deep breath. The gist of the letter had been obvious for some time, but that last sentence still came as a surprise. More than anyone else: that meant more than Mycroft, more than John or Mary. She, Molly Hooper, was the most important person in the world to Sherlock Holmes. (And the person who had cut him off, abandoned him, given up on him…)

 _I said it was a dark time, but there were glimpses of light, too, Rosie being one. Rosie_ liked _me. If anyone had told me before that I would enjoy holding a baby in my arms, I would have declared them insane, yet here I was, blowing raspberries to keep her amused. I had to deduce that I was more similar to the average human than hitherto assumed._

 _The other big glimpse of light was you, of course. Whether you scolded me or comforted me, you always did me good. Remember that day when you told me you felt as if you were running to stand still, because it needed so much TLC from you just to keep me alive from day to day? You were frustrated because I wasn't getting any better. Molly, you looked at that the wrong way round. Imagine you had not been running..._

 _I would like you to view file No 8 now._

It was a copy of discharge papers from a rehab facility.

 _I'm clean, Molly. Nothing but caffeine and nicotine for the last five months. Just so you know. But I've gone ahead of the story. In fact, I've been arranging and rearranging these paragraphs umpteen times, but I think this way, it flows best. The two most important things have to come last. You know what they are: Sherrinford, and the Fall. I will start with the Fall._

 _I have told you before that you made it all possible. I'm not sure I was clear: It wasn't what you did that day, it was what you said. Granted, it was convenient that you had the body ready by the time Mycroft's people arrived. But it's not as if they couldn't have commandeered one anyway. What they couldn't do and what nobody else could do was to give me the strength to go through with it._

What had she said? She replayed it in her head one more time.

"What do you need?"

"You."

"But what do you need me to do?"

"Patience; there will be things to do soon. Not now. Tell me, Molly Hooper: Who am I? _What_ am I?"

She'd seen the despair and utter confusion in his face. This was a new thing, something she had never expected to encounter in Sherlock Holmes. Doubt. His infuriating self-assurance had left him completely. He was like an animal exposing a soft underbelly, vulnerable to any tooth or claw that might wish to strike. She had to turn him around and get him back on his feet so that he could face whatever it was that was coming for him.

"You are the best person I know," she said firmly. "Not only smarter, but better. You do what is right, not because it comes naturally to you but because you choose to. With your gifts, you could be the world's greatest criminal mastermind, living in luxury in a high security fortress, pampered and guarded, pulling strings in the background. You could be Moriarty, only worse. Instead you choose to live in a mediocre flat among ordinary people and you put your life on the line to hunt down criminals. And don't you dare say you're doing it for the thrills, because you could get just as big a thrill from pulling off some terrible crime. No, Sherlock, you choose this because you are moral to the core."

"I am not a fraud then?"

"You are not a fraud. You like your bit of drama and you're putting it on very thick at times, but you are always true at heart."

"I am true and I am good?"

"You are true and you are good."

"So I deserve to live?"

A dreadful realisation hit Molly at that moment that he wasn't going to die from some external danger, but by his own hand. She braced herself.

"You deserve to live. More than that, you have a duty to live. With great gifts comes great responsibility. You, Sherlock Holmes, are the last person in the world who could be allowed to give up his life."

Looking back, Molly hardly knew where all those solemn words had come from. For once, the nervous prattle that usually took over her mouth in the presence of Sherlock was muted. She had spoken the truth clearly and convincingly. And Sherlock had looked at her as if he had seen her, really seen her, for the first time.

"Do you believe all that, Molly Hooper?"

"I do. I believe in you."

He had peered at her so earnestly, she had nearly wilted under his gaze. Eventually he said, "Then it must be true." He took a step towards her and put his hands on her shoulder.

"I must disappear," he said. "Not from this world, since you tell me I am duty-bound to it, but from sight. I can't promise that I will return, or if I do, when. I hope I will see you again one day, Molly, but whether I do or not, I want you to know that I believe in you, too." He pressed a kiss on her forehead. "Now come, we have work to do."

 _It was your faith in me that saved me. I was assaulted by doubt from all sides and I needed someone to believe in me. No, not someone: you. Not Mycroft, because his family loyalty trumps everything. Not John, because while I would trust him with my life, I wouldn't trust his judgement. Only your judgement counted. You are my rock of certitude._

 _I would like you to view file No 9 now. This is moments before I jumped off the roof._

Another text message exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft.

 **Promise to look after Molly. SH**

 **I already promised that. MH**

 **Promise again. SH**

 **All right, I promise again. MH**

 **Thank you. SH**

 _Once I was "dead," I had to leave the country as quickly as possible, of course. Being, as I was, so snugly hidden in your bedroom, I might have wished for Mycroft to be a little less efficient. What's two days in the grand scheme of things? I tell you what two days is: Time enough to come to some conclusions. I had already told you that you counted and had always counted. What I realised during those two days was that you counted more than the others. More than Mycroft, more even than John. You see, Mycroft supported me because he was my brother, John supported me because he was, and is, dazzled by my gifts, and in spite of his very healthy ability to tell me some home truths, he continues to hero worship me. Not so you. You had seen me in my weakest hour and still you believed in me. You proved yourself to be my best ally._

 _I can present no evidence for this, nor for anything that happened during the two years I was away. You will have to take my word for it. Let me tell the truth. I did not think of you all the time, nor did I think of you more often than of John or of my brother or even of London. There was a difference, however: I drew more strength from the thought of you. You know well enough how things went downhill after my return. They would have gone down much further if it hadn't been for you. Don't think about this as John meaning less to me than you thought. It is about you meaning more._

 _Of course this was not the only time that I left as a dead man. The second time, I had the opportunity to leave some kind of will with my brother. File number 10 is part of it._

A handwritten note: "In the event of my death, let Molly Hooper know that I made a donation to a sperm bank (see enclosed form) and that, should she ever wish to have a child, I would be honoured if she chose me as the father."

 _Was that an insolent thing to do? Are you revolted? I was not in my right mind at the time. Still, perhaps you can understand it as an incredibly misguided attempt to leave you a meaningful gift. Judge me fairly, Molly. You know you always do._

 _Now we have reached the point where I have to ask you to view file No 11. I need to warn you that it contains video footage of the Sherrinford phone call. No doubt, it will be a traumatic experience for you to watch it. Please watch it nonetheless, for your sake and mine. I would imagine you are still hurting from this experience. Trust me, so am I. You're a doctor, Molly, you know that the wound needs to be cleaned out so it can heal properly. You need to know the whole truth, and I don't think there are any words that can describe it. You need to see it for yourself. All of it._

Molly folded up the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She shut down the computer, put on her jacket and grabbed the keys. The door clicked shut behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly took a bus to Holyrood and began to ascend Arthur's Seat. It was a misty day and the view across the estuary was obscured. Still, the drawn-out, plaintive calling of the seagulls was heard from the shore, competing with a similarly mournful bagpipe somewhere at the foot of the Royal Mile. Molly set a leisurely pace, allowing other climbers to overtake her. She wasn't into this munro-bagging thing; she just wanted air and space to think.

Sherlock's story so far was acceptable. No, more than acceptable, it was encouraging. It had the ring of truth. If he had claimed a long-suppressed, ever-present passion for her, she wouldn't have believed a word. But everything he had told her was plausible. Plausible and, on the whole, welcome news. She was particularly pleased to hear about the fate of the science prints. The thing about the sperm bank, while vastly insensitive (but that was Sherlock for you) was also rather touching. In fact, had the situation arisen, she might well have availed herself of the opportunity.

Trust Sherlock to present her with a pile of evidence! Trust him to explain everything in such painstaking detail. So, okay, he wasn't the world's worst bastard after all. Obviously, she had known that he wasn't, but it had certainly felt like that at times. He was arrogant and blunt and profoundly irritating, but first and foremost he was an oxymoron: an eloquent man who struggled with communication. Struggled with it endlessly but for once had managed to spell things out in plain English. She was the person whose judgement he trusted, whose faith had saved his life, the person who mattered most to him. It was almost too good to be true, but true it was, she felt certain now. The question was…

Did she still love him?

Molly reached the summit, panting. It was windy up here and the mist was slowly dispersing. She could see the silhouette of the castle now. The presence of the sea loomed as a suggestion in the East. From down in the city came the sound of the one o'clock gun. No crime to solve here, just a spectacle for the tourists.

Gingerly, Molly approached the ring-fenced, out-of-the-way place where she had parked her affections for Sherlock. She probed it, allowing his image to rise, for the first time in months, fully in front of her mind's eye. Sherlock-of-the-mind gazed at her with his unsettling eyes. But there was no anxious flutter in her heart. "Sherlock," she murmured, but the familiar tightening of her chest did not happen. She assessed him calmly, coolly, weighing him against everything else in the world to see if he would tip the scales. They quivered in the balance. Was it possible that she had outlived this ancient obsession? Could what she had thought of as the love of her life have faded away because of choir singing and pottery?

Perhaps it was the arrival of the letter. Perhaps it had taken this one event, that Sherlock would seek her out to bare his soul to her, to set her free. Perhaps she was ready to close that chapter of her life.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," she whispered experimentally. She was prepared to see his image float away among the wind-driven clouds. Instead, she heard his voice in her head.

"Really, Molly? The heart flutter and the butterflies are gone and so you think it's all over? Was it just about that, Molly? About little tingling sensations in the body? Could you possibly be _that_ shallow?"

"Of course not," Molly's inner voice replied. "It wasn't just about that. You're my friend. We're friends. That's more important than any tingling sensation _–_ oh..."

"Exactly so," said the inner Sherlock. "You were so preoccupied with wanting me to luuurve you that you failed to see the value of what we had. You were looking for a single rose and failed to see the garden you stood in."

"It's not a single rose," Molly defended herself, casting about for a suitable metaphor. "It's the rose bush that gives the whole garden its scent."

"Perhaps," the inner Sherlock conceded. "But you won't ever find out what roses grow, or not, in our garden, unless you look everywhere. So go and finish my letter."

Molly sighed. The Sherrinford footage, yes, she would have to face it. What she knew about that day was little enough. Psychopathic sister, macabre game show with life and death stakes, death threats to her, cameras in her flat, Sherlock forced into a corner. John had tried to tell her more before she had cut him off. Mycroft had confirmed it when he came with a team to make her flat secure. "He was trapped, Dr Hooper. It was all a trick. I trust you won't hold that against him."

And Molly didn't hold it against him. She held it against herself. She recoiled at the memory of herself whimpering and sobbing at the phone like a small child. If it was possible to reduce her to such a wretch with nothing but a bit of trickery, then something had to change urgently. She was no use to anyone, least of all herself, if she crumbled like this because of anything Sherlock Holmes said or did. This was no way for a grown-up woman to behave. She needed to get her act together. That, ultimately, was the reason she left London.

Perhaps things had changed since then. If the same scene were to play out now, she might be able to handle it differently.

"Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words."

"What words?"

"I love you."

"That's a rather odd request, don't you think?"

"It's for a case. It's a sort of experiment."

"Like a code?"

"Yes, like a code."

"Can't you get someone else to say it?"

"Your voice has the right pitch."

"All right. Do you have your pen and paper ready? I...love...you. Got that? Sorry, need to go now, have a nice day."

Had she been able to do that back then, as she should have, there would have been no need to uproot herself, to desert all her friends and flee to Scotland.

"But," whispered a timid voice in her head, "if you had been able to do that back then, there would have been no consequences either. Everything would have carried on as before. You would never have received a heart-wrenching letter from Sherlock, which is still sitting on your desk."

There was nothing for it. She had to listen to Sherlock's confessions to the end. She made her way back down the hill and took the bus home.

…oOo…

The disc is still in the drive. Molly has made herself a cup of tea to hold on to and is fighting down the nausea as she opens file 11.

It is a room like a bunker, with a TV screen at one end and a single object in the centre. A box. A coffin. A coffin?

Sherlock, John and Mycroft enter. Sherlock speaks on the phone to a child. She is frightened. On a plane? Something about crashing into a city? John and Mycroft argue, Sherlock tried to reassure the girl. The call ends abruptly, and a woman appears on the screen, uttering cruel, callous words about death. Whose coffin is it?

"Please start your deductions."

Sherlock rattles off observations, determines that it is for a woman, alone, of limited height and limited means, practical about death – until he is interrupted by Mycroft. The lid. Molly cringes. Will her name be on the plaque? No, not her name, the three dreaded words. And she can tell from Sherlock's expression that he thinks of her straight away.

"So who loves you?" Mycroft asks. "I'm assuming it's not a long list."

John mentions Irene Adler; Sherlock shuts him down immediately. Speaks her name. Then the woman announces her challenge. Explosives. A three minute count-down. The "release code." Sherlock's face pinched and harrowed. His expression of despair when she doesn't pick up the phone. The relief when she does. The panic when she almost hangs up. Molly, the Molly of back then in her kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear, can't see any of this, but she should hear it in his voice. She is too wrapped up in her own agony to notice his. While the seconds are ticking away, she prolongs his torture by making demands. She is selfish. And still he says it. He says it twice.

"I saved Molly Hooper!" he roars. The woman's mocking voice replies. _From what? Look at what you did to her._ And Molly knows: Sherlock has never played with her feelings. Sherlock has never toyed with her or with anyone else. _This_ is what toying with people looks like. She wants to be sick.

But the video is not finished. While John and Mycroft make for the door, Sherlock hangs back, gently putting the lid on the coffin as if she'd really died.

Nothing, nothing on Earth could have prepared her for what comes next. She sees the wood splinters fly. She hears Sherlock's cry of anguish. She sees him as she has never seen him before, out of control, defeated, undone. Because of what he did to her?

Because of what she did to him. Because she'd broken down when he had needed her to be calm and strong. Because she had been emotional when it was necessary to be rational. Because she had forced him to say what he didn't want to say. Because she had failed him.

Molly was weeping.

Yes, she had failed him. Through her lamentable weakness she had made his already intolerable situation even worse. "Look at what you've done to yourself," the woman had taunted him. But Molly knew, when she saw him smashing that coffin and howling like a stricken animal, that she, Molly, had done that to him. She had wanted to be his rock and his strength, but when it came to the crunch, she had melted like wax, torn like cobweb. And surely this will be how the letter ends: "As you see, Molly, you were not quite the woman I thought you were. I had been fond of you, and I remain grateful for your past assistance, but I cannot see a future with a woman who cannot face the kind of challenges I have to deal with. Regretfully, then…"

Eyes closed, letter pressed to her chest, Molly cried for some time about this imagined conclusion before she eventually gathered the courage to confront the real rest.

 _Are you crying, Molly? I am so sorry I had to put you through this, but I am sure you understand why I wanted you to see this. The footage speaks for itself. Vivisection. You cut open the dead, who are past caring, but oh, Molly, my sister! She cut us both open, you and me, just to see what was inside. And yet, just why was this all so terrible? Why did you feel you couldn't tell me what I already knew? Why didn't you trust me? John keeps telling me it wasn't my fault, and I say once again, John is rarely right. It was my fault entirely. If I had had my act together, I could have approached this differently. Eurus had only demanded that you had to say the words "I love you." She didn't specify that you had to mean me._

 _"Hi, Molly, I have Rosie here with me and she is a little gloomy. Can you cheer her up? Tell her you love her."_

 _"I love you, Rosie!"_

 _Or this:_

 _"Hi, Molly, I need your help with Italian. What does this mean:_ _Roma, città antica, come ti amo?"_

 _Problem solved, 15 seconds flat, no hearts sliced open. I could have asked you what the chorus was in any number of pop songs. I could have asked you to repeat a string of random sentences like a code, and slipped it in there. A possibility like that didn't even occur to me at the time. I was locked in a loop where it was about you and me. About us. Where you had to say it_ to me. _And still, I could have saved you pain._

 _"Hi, Molly, I'm sitting here pondering. Trying to become more human, you know. Exactly why do we love our friends? I love Rosie because she has the most adorable chuckle. I love John because he has made me a better man. Why do you love him?"_

 _"Oh, I suppose because he is kind, funny…"_

 _"Can you say it in a full sentence, please? Can you start with 'I love John because…'? It helps me think."_

 _"Oh, okay. I love John because he is kind and loyal and funny."_

 _"Okay. How about Mrs Hudson?"_

 _"I love Mrs Hudson because she's such a crazy old biddy."_

 _"How about me?"_

 _"Um, I love you because you are smart and always do the right thing."_

 _"Thanks. And I love you because I've lost count of how many times you have saved my life."_

 _Problem solved, two minutes left on the timer, Molly's dignity intact. See how easy it would have been? Eurus was right, it was the emotional context that destroyed me. I couldn't think of it in a way that would not have raised your suspicions. I could only think of it as being dead serious. The words were written on a bloody coffin lid, your coffin lid! They were written in mile high letters in my mind. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't remember any of the many little I Love Yous that you could have quite innocently said. Only of the big one. And because I knew you wouldn't want to say the big one, I tried to disguise it, and so we ended up with all those unfortunate words floating in the air. Game, case, experiment. It was my manner that set you on edge. My lack of clear thinking. I failed you so badly. I just wanted to save your life and I forgot that I owed you more than that._

 _There is still more to unpack here. My failure wasn't merely of that moment in time. My failure had been many years in the making. I come back to my original question: Why didn't you trust me? Why? We were so close. There had been long stretches of time, weeks and months even, when I slept more often in your bed than in my own. I had held you in my arms while you were sleeping. I had come to you with all my troubles. I had trusted you with my life, more than once. Why, then, could you not trust me with your heart? Why did you automatically assume that I was mocking you? Did it all go back as far as The Incident at the Christmas Party? I know I have been self-centred and flippant and obtuse and negligent, but I have never been deliberately cruel to you. It was only when you accused me of making fun of you that I realised just how suspicious you were. That you were on guard all the time in case I wanted to toy with you. Nothing could be further from the truth, and yet, through my own failure, because I did observe but did not understand, I had planted this notion in your head. One of my stupid games, you thought. Had I been a better friend, then I could have said to you, "Molly, I am scared and stressed. I need some kindness. Please tell me that you love me." Had I been a better friend, you would have said it without fear. See how all paths were closed to me? The light-hearted, the sensible, the heartfelt, all blocked, leaving only the ham-fisted. "Without asking why, just say these words." God, I couldn't have handled it worse if I'd tried._

 _What happened next tortured me at the time, but with hindsight I consider it a miracle. Where I had failed to protect your dignity, you took charge and protected it yourself. "You say it. Go ahead." My brave and clever Molly. That was just the right solution, or would have been if I'd had a moment to collect myself. You couldn't know that the time was running out and I was panicking. I was frantically thinking in what tone I had to say the words so they would convince you to reply. I couldn't afford to get it wrong. I did my best and to this day I don't know whether or not it was enough. It was enough to make you say it, but the aftermath suggests that it wasn't enough to make you believe me._

 _And here we come to the ultimate question, the one I am sure you have asked yourself: the question whether I "meant it."_

Even with all that had gone before, Molly still felt the need to close her eyes for a moment and brace herself before she read on.

 _Well, of course I "meant it," but what does that mean? If you have watched the video to the end, you will know the strength of my affections for you. Is that enough? Or can you only be satisfied if they mirror yours exactly? I know you love me (Or loved me? Do I need to use the past tense?) in the sense that people call "romantic," and in all honesty I have to tell you that I do not understand what that means. Billions of people across the world are living their lives as couples; is it even possible that they all have the same kind of feelings for each other? There must be room for a lot of variation. How can people divide up their attachments to others so neatly into categories; romantic, platonic, erotic? Chemicals must be labelled, but why feelings? Why do people agonise about the state of their relationships, why do they debate whether they are dating, exclusive, in a relationship, engaged – all just for the sake of other people! And what's all the fuss about going on a date anyway, going out for dinner, as if that somehow makes a person more important? You couldn't be more important to me if I took you on a thousand dinner dates._

 _Help me out here, Molly. You are the number one person in my world and I told you that a long time ago. I am at a loss as to what I could possibly tell you that would be worth more than that. Do you want me to call you "darling" or "sweetheart" or something like that? I can do that, if it makes you happy, but what's the point? Do you want to hear things like that I am enchanted by your brown eyes or intoxicated by your scent? I'm not. I delight in the scent of you because it gives me comfort, and that's why I sleep so well in your bed. Do you want to hear that I lie awake at night dreaming of running my hands over your naked body? Why would I be so disrespectful to you to allow myself such thoughts? Should I say that I crave the feeling of your lips on mine? I don't. My mind does not function that way. Which is not to say that I might not like it if we tried it sometime. Would you like to try it sometime? Would you like to show me what you've dreamt of? I'm prepared to give everything a chance, if you will give us a chance._

 _You may well ask how it can possibly have taken me several months to write this letter. The letter is – I'm sure you will understand this – merely the tip of the iceberg. In the aftermath of Sherrinford, I had to rebuild myself and my mind palace and I had to take steps to rebuild my family. None of these tasks are anywhere near complete yet. Needless to say, criminals have not been sleeping either just because I had to deal with personal problems. And in the midst of all that, I had to work out what had been going on between you and me during all those years. I dare say these few pages have taken more effort than a medical research paper of similar length._

 _It is my sincere hope that you will have read this far. When I told you that I thought your wish was unfair (yes, yes, I had my words to you all planned out), it was because you didn't know all this. You made a decision based on guesswork. Now you can make an informed choice. Needless to say, I am biting my nails hoping that you will choose me. If, however, you decide against me, or if you have "moved on," let me make this one last plea: Get in touch with John. He and Rosie have done nothing to deserve losing you, and they've lost enough already. Come back to London or at least make sure you see them sometimes, and I promise I will make sure our paths never cross, if you so desire._

 _Finally, please open file No 12._

It was a sound recording. Sherlock playing the violin, a tune she'd not heard before. It started on a soft, trembling note that gently blended into undulations up and down the scale like birds soaring through a stormy sky. It rolled in rich and strong like the ocean on a wintry beach. It flickered like the silvery underside of poplar leaves. It climbed snowy mountains, it delved into mysterious caves, it sighed at the moon and smiled at the sun. It spoke the language of the truest heart of all, and engraved on that heart was her name.

 _I composed this for you, Molly. If the thousands of words in this letter have not succeeded in reaching you, maybe this will._

 _Yours, in hope,_

 _Sherlock_

…oOo…

The gallery was housed in a neoclassical building off Belford Road. A semi-circular drive led to the five-pillared entryway. This drive enclosed a piece of landscape art which easily outshone all the artwork inside the building. Languid curves of terraced turf defined the outlines of two shallow, crescent-shaped pools: grass and water drawn together like a vast natural brooch.

It was twenty to ten on Sunday morning when Molly entered the grounds from the North entrance. The sun shone fiercely. She had come about halfway when she saw Sherlock approaching from the South gate. As soon as he spotted her, he left the path and cut across the lawn. She veered off the drive and walked across the grass, too. He began to run. Molly stopped herself from running, but she quickened her pace. They met at the edge of the curved pool, with five foot of fresh Scottish air still between them.

"Molly. Generous as always. I was prepared to wait and be tortured for a week, but you came straight away."

"It was the least I could do. Sherlock, I want to – "

"Wait, first things first. Forgive me, Molly. Please forgive me."

Molly stepped forward and took hold of his lapels.

"I forgive you. And I want to ask your forgiveness too, Sherlock."

"Whatever for?"

"For abandoning you without even giving you a chance to explain. You were right, I have been unfair to you. And then there is my Sherrinford failure. You were right to ask why I didn't trust you. I absolutely should have trusted you. You were my best friend, and I let you down when it mattered most. If I had been stronger that day, I could have saved you so much pain. Lord, Sherlock, you were trying to save my life and I called you a bastard!"

"You didn't know."

"I should have known. I should have known that you wouldn't mess with me like that and that something was seriously wrong. I failed you so badly. I am sorry."

"Molly, no! There's nothing to forgive."

"Please, Sherlock, I don't want to hear that. I forgive you with all my heart, but you must forgive me, too."

Sherlock was visibly taken aback, but something in her face must have convinced him, because he wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear: "All right, as you wish. I forgive you."

As she relaxed into the embrace, she felt his body do the same. At long last, the barriers between them were down. It felt so peaceful. They stood for some time in silence, until finally Sherlock pulled back and peered into her face.

"So, what now? We have forgiven each other, but that was only half of the problem. Where do we go from here? Have you made a decision?"

"Yes. You can use the present tense, Sherlock. I choose you. Whatever that might turn out to mean."

"My Molly." He smiled and, for the third time in their lives, gave her a tender kiss on the cheek. It was the merest brush of his lips against her skin and it was over in an instant. Molly remembered all her fantasies, the whole pandemonium of passion that she had dreamt up over the years, and wondered how much of it would ever come true. Perhaps it mattered much less than she had always thought. Sherlock had chosen her and she had chosen him. Whatever love he was capable of, he had offered to her. He was standing beside her and he had called her his. It was enough for now.

Sherlock took her hand.

"You're cold," he said and pushed their intertwined fingers into his coat pocket.

"What's this?" Her fingertips had touched something smooth and hard.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. Present for you."

He let go of her hand and pulled a tiny box out of the pocket. Clearly a jeweller's box. What was he playing at? Molly struggled to rein in her imagination as she opened it.

"Oh! Earrings."

"Yes. _Dainty_ earrings. They'll suit you much better."

They looked a little like the big hoops she had worn a lifetime ago at the ill-fated Christmas party, only that these were the size of thumbnails. And they were not covered in glitter.

"Sherlock! They look very expensive."

"Well. I earned a pretty neat sum on that Battenberg case. And if you consider all the birthday and Christmas presents I never gave you, that'll all add up."

"They are lovely. Thank you." She kissed him swiftly on the cheek.

He smiled. "You are so graceful. You have to teach me how you do it."

"Graceful, me? Have you forgotten all the times when I stammered as soon as you looked at me? Or that time I spilled coffee on you? Or when I broke your pen?"

"Quite forgotten!"

"Liar. You have it all stored in your mind palace."

"I swear, I'm going to lock that room and throw away the key."

Molly put on the earrings. Then she wrapped her arm around Sherlock's waist. He stroked her hair.

"You're going to love Baker Street, Molly. It's all been restored."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the damage from the explosion has all been cleared up and – "

"What explosion?"

He looked at her, perplexed.

"My God, Molly, you don't even know! I have taken such care to explain my inner world to you that I've forgotten to fill you in on the external details. Eurus – you know about her, don't you? – blew up my flat. We had a lucky escape. But it's all been done up nicely and John has moved back in with Rosie. But there's plenty of space for you! We'll just buy a bigger bed. That is, if you'd like that. Would you like that?

"I'm not sure." Molly glanced up at the frosty blue sky. "I've kind of fallen in love with Enbra."

"With _whom?_ " There was a hint of panic in his voice.

"Oh!" Molly chuckled. "I think I'm going native. I mean E-din-burgh."

"Oh, I see." He mulled this over. "How about we keep your flat for weekend getaways?"

"We're going to have weekend getaways?"

"All the time!" He pulled her closer. They looked down at their figures mirrored in the water. "We're going to have anything we want. You, Molly, you made it all possible." And, after a bracing intake of breath: "I should very much like to kiss you. I mean properly. Would you like that?"

"Would I ever!"

She raised her face. In the dazzling morning light, the crescent-shaped pool reflected the image of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, the dark and the dainty, embarking on a new adventure -– and liking it.

* * *

The landscape art at the Gallery of Modern Art in Edinburgh is by Charles Jencks. I suggest you look him up; his work is amazing!


End file.
